The Garden of Ediacara

Since what is is so harsh,
And since people can think
Of sweetness as a thing

In itself, separate
From what is harsh, although
They’re never separate

In what is, what happens,
People have imagined
Or tried to imagine

All sorts of sweeter worlds,
Either hidden somewhere
Or waiting after death,

Or far off in the stars,
Or, most poignantly, lost
Deep in the remote past,

Myth hopeful and tragic—
Hopeful since it suggests
Sweetness was the first way,

The true way of the world;
Tragic since it suggests
An unbearable loss.

Even outside of myth
The myth is resilient,
As when a scientist

Writes wistfully of fronds
And large fan-like creatures
All swaying peacefully,

Sans eyes, sans teeth, sans claws,
Sans the bizarre armor
That would start scurrying

In the Cambrian burst
Of speed and predation.
Imagine that, a world

Of life without hunting,
Without violence, just
Swaying in the garden

Of innocent sweetness,
Of life’s golden aura
Of Ediacara.